


Macchina

by hestialuna



Series: Hikaru no Joe [2]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee, Italy, M/M, Original Character(s), Sai/Angelo (original character)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestialuna/pseuds/hestialuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sapiente is growing desperate. Angelo believes him to be a figment of his broken mind and pays him as little attention as possible. Why was he given this second chance to complete his work, only to be bound to an engineer who has no interest in coffee, or him? Was this punishment for what he had done?"</p><p>A Sai-focused prequel to Hikaru no Joe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sapiente

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caminante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caminante/gifts).



> Wow, this Sai-focused prequel sure took a long time and got way longer than I expected! It's a big change in tone and focus from the main entry in the [Hikaru no Joe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/71528) Alternate Universe but it does directly relate to the main story. 
> 
> You can also read this as a stand-alone, as long as you're okay with Sai being the ghost of an 18th century Italian barista, but it works best read after at least chapter 3 of the main Hikaru no Joe story. Just please be aware that this story isn't as fluffy as the Hikaru-focused main story and it touches on some serious themes. Please see the end note if you want further (somewhat spoiler-y) information about potential triggers.
> 
> I set out to explore Sai's back-story and to create an original character, a quasi-Honinbo Shuusaku, for my barista alternate universe. I hope it works for you!

 

 _"_ _Indeed, it is said that a good espresso depends on the four M’s: Macchina, the espresso machine; Macinazione, the proper grinding of a beans; Miscela, the coffee blend and the roast; and Mano, the skilled hand of the barista, because even with the finest beans and the most advanced equipment, the shot depends on the touch and style of the barista."_

\- " _The Long History of the Espresso Machine,”_[ _Smithsonian_](http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/the-long-history-of-the-espresso-machine-126012814/?no-ist)

 Venice, Italy

December 29, 1766

His last memory is a searing haze of red as his limbs clawed for air until the very end. He could never have guessed that this would feel so much like burning. Since childhood, he had found comfort in the deep, cool abyss of the Adriatic Sea, but now it fills his vision and his lungs with liquid fire. His only regret is that he will not be able to appreciate the final solace to come, the total absence of pain.

And yet, there is silence afterward. He drifts in the waves between the waking world and the realm of dreams, letting the heavy tide of slumber pull him again and again. The journey will not be long now. He will sleep until he reaches the shore.

If only he could… A familiar aroma wafts over him, summoning the new dawn as it has so many times before. He still wants to rest, but he has never been inclined to sleep in. It is time to work. As the scent unfurls and blooms with rich spices, he grows fitful. He knows he needs to finish his work, but he is so tired. Perhaps he will stay here until the impulse grows unbearable.

When Sapiente is finally propelled into the blazing light of day, he feels nothing but relief.

 

* * *

 Torino, Italy

November 18, 1951

After the war, thousands rushed to the industrial cities of Northern Italy, where jobs and promises of wealth flowed freely from the open doors of its factories. The so-called “economic miracle” washed away the wreckage of post-war Italy, leaving in its wake new power plants, dams, miles of highways, and dreams of a bright future.

But, behind the closed door and drawn curtains of a particular, small apartment in Torino, a different storm has raged and passed unseen.

Rows of engineering textbooks, once sorted neatly by title, now cascade from a bookcase to the desk and onto a pile of grease-stained jeans. Twisted sleeves and electrical cords splay across the floor towards the bed where a thin, lanky man stirs fitfully in a tangle of bed sheets.

His face contorts as he dreams about another young man clutching his hand. The man’s cold fingers grip his palm so tightly that they begin to shake. Angelo focuses on the watch adorning the arm that is clutching onto him and imagines that he can see its tiny gears clicking together in a reassuring cadence. Anything to obliterate the scene before him.

_Don't say it. Don't make it happen._

"Angelo… the doctor gave me some bad news."

His eyes snap open.

Angelo reflexively reaches for the small watch resting by his pillow and runs his thumb over its worn face, struggling to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and tries to drift back to sleep, but his heart is still racing.

It feels like night, but a glimmer of light shines from beneath the curtain. Angelo isn't sure when he last went to work, which means he’s probably well over-due for an appearance at the clockmaker’s shop. They haven't fired him yet, out of pity, but he doesn't want to test their patience. He knows he should get out of bed, and yet.

As much as Angelo tries to generate a sense of urgency, he can’t move. It feels like time has stopped instead. Hasn't it, after all, since graduation? All of his classmates have moved back home to their families, made plans, started new jobs… Everyone has moved forward except for him.

Angelo wonders, not for the first time, what it might be like to be one of them. Acquiring a new job would have been easy. Despite his grades plummeting in the last weeks before graduation, he still received top honors and numerous job offers, which he ignored. He imagines a different version of himself walking into a house, one that he would have spent many years living in, and greeting the smiling faces of two people who also would have known him for many years. It must be reassuring to have that familiarity. It probably wouldn't feel completely alien if one were used to it.

All that is left of the closest thing that Angelo ever had to a real home now fits neatly inside four small sealed cartons by his bed. Martino didn't have any family to speak of either, so the university had allowed Angelo to keep his meager belongings after he passed away.

Angelo would wonder, in the years to come, what had made this _the_ day. He suddenly bolts upright and finds himself staring at those boxes. He notices a small knife among a pile of scattered tools and cigarette butts nearby.

A moment later, it’s in his hand and he drives it into the closest box.

Pieces of cardboard scatter and fly to the ground. After months of treading warily around the boxes and avoiding their existence through a combination of sleep and cigarettes, Angelo is shocked at how viciously he now tears them open.

A small moka pot lies at the top of the largest box. Angelo gingerly picks it up. Martino had bought it at an antiques shop and had promised that he would make him coffee every morning when they moved in together after graduation. He knew that coffee was the only thing that could get Angelo out of bed.

He opens the tiny chamber. To his surprise, a bit of water gleams on the bottom and white salt is crusted on its sides. Disgusted, Angelo reaches inside and scratches at the salt. A plume of coffee-scented vapor bursts forth, knocking him against the wall.

The haze gradually solidifies into the shape of a young man.

Angelo is too stunned to scream. The ghostly figure seems equally as shocked to see him. He floats several feet off the ground wearing breeches and a long white coat with a violet waistcoat underneath. Angelo grasps onto this piece of data and identifies him as definitely Italian, possibly from the 18th century. His long black hair is pulled into a low ponytail and he has remarkably striking features. Angelo would have thought he was a woman had it not been for the breeches.

The ghost seems to recover somewhat and makes a hasty bow.

_Buongiorno! You can see me, can't you? It... seems that I've returned to the world of the living._

Angelo stares at him blankly as his breathing speeds up and his hands grow numb. The figure is still speaking, but Angelo can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. It's happening again, this inexplicable, wretched loss of control. His vision narrows to the worried face looming over him. Wide luminous eyes, pale glowing skin, and red lips that seem almost lifelike.

“I’m hallucinating. This cannot possibly be happening. I need to reset,” he thinks frantically, as he slumps down onto the bed and shakily throws an arm over his eyes. He tries to catch his breath, but darkness quickly overtakes him.

 

* * *

Sapiente watches the engineer hunched over his worktable with barely concealed impatience.

His face is obscured by a mop of dark blonde hair and a magnifying eyepiece. A hollowed clock lays in front of him as his hands place a delicate gear with light, precise movements.

Upon waking, Angelo had immediately bolted out of the apartment and to this clockmaker’s shop. To both of their surprise, Sapiente was able to join him.

Sapiente is starting to feel desperate. Angelo believes him to be a figment of his broken mind and pays him as little attention as possible. Why was he given this second chance to complete his work, only to be bound to someone who apparently has no interest in coffee, or him? Was this punishment for what he had done?

 

* * *

"What did you say your name was again?"

The pale figure is standing mournfully by the window. At the sound of Angelo's voice, it starts in surprise and whirls to face him. Angelo suppresses a shudder.

 _Sapiente Francesconi,_ it replies cautiously.

Angelo has never known anyone by that name. And the specter doesn't resemble anyone he knows. He would remember seeing that face before. Interesting.

After ignoring its presence all day  in the failed hope that it would disappear on its own, Angelo is forced to take action. The sooner he accepts his current circumstances, the sooner he will be able to analyze the situation clearly.

Angelo spends the next several hours interviewing his hallucination and becoming helplessly fascinated by the contours of his own madness. This _Sapiente_ is apparently from Venice, a city that Angelo has never visited nor ever cares to visit. Not only that, he can rattle off Venetian landmarks and the news from his time period, which, he claims, was the mid-1700s. Angelo marvels at the sheer quantity and detail of this latent knowledge that he must have absorbed from newspapers and past history classes in order to manifest this hallucination. He will have to visit the library later to verify its accuracy.

The most baffling revelation is Sapiente's _obsession_ with coffee.  He claims to have worked at a famous Venetian coffeehouse called Caffè Florian and passionately rants about the roasts and drinks he had invented, his personal philosophy on brewing, the drink preferences of the various patrons who had frequented his coffee shop, and his claim that he has returned from the spirit world to prepare something called the “Divine Brew.”

Torino is famous for coffee and Angelo partakes in a morning cappuccino and several daily espressos like any other Italian, but he doesn’t harbor much personal interest in it otherwise. He wracks his memory trying to uncover some metaphorical link, some childhood trauma, anything that could explain such an all-consuming interest in coffee. Why on earth would any hallucination of his claim to be a ghost infatuated with _coffee_ of all things?

Angelo realizes that he hasn’t eaten all day. He opens his small refrigerator and takes out a stale piece of bread and a block of cheese.  He eyes the cheese closely before carefully paring off several suspicious dark spots. Sapiente is curiously flitting through the small apartment and exclaiming at various appliances when Angelo takes a bite.

Sapiente freezes in mid-air and gives him a look of such extreme horror that Angelo almost chokes.

_That is foul! What is the matter with you?! You're as Italian as I am! Eat real food, not that garbage!_

Angelo is surprised to find himself snickering.

"So you can taste, but not feel anything? What kind of a ghost are you?”

In response, the ghost only rests his chin on his hand while Angelo quietly processes this new information. The ghost begins to smile and slowly looks up. His wide eyes seem to grow even larger.

_Is there a restaurant nearby?_

"No," Angelo said flatly. "I'm not taking you anywhere until I figure out what you are. Enough people think I'm crazy already."

_But we went to the clockmaker’s shop together!_

“No one bothers me in there,” Angelo snaps.

_It has been hundreds of years since I've had gnocchi! And...mio dio... espresso. Please could we just go out for dinner? I won't say a word and I'll sit far away. You won't even know I'm there._

"Whining is childish," Angelo growls. He opens his cabinets, foraging for other options. There are several cans of vegetables and sauce. That could work.

_You can't analyze all this clearly unless you have a proper meal. And you know you will be useless without real coffee._

Angelo snorts. "Clever. Then again, a figment of my imagination should be clever. I can use your moka pot to make coffee, although using it might make you disappear. I should try that, actually."

Sapiente glances warily at the moka pot, but clenches his fists.

_Please then, let me make coffee for you! If you are satisfied with it, then can we go to a restaurant and a caffè together?_

Angelo raises an eyebrow at this. " _You_ ’ _ll_ make the coffee? And how exactly would that work?"

Sapiente flashes him a brilliant smile. _Just follow my instructions!_

 

* * *

Angelo stabs at the butter and sage drenched gnocchi with his fork and takes another bite. Sapiente sits across from him, radiant and beatific. They are outside at a small table surrounded by couples. A waiter stops to refill his water glass.

_I feel like I'm closer to heaven than I already am! Although this might be my version of hell, to be stuck here with you._

The gnocchi peace offering has clearly put Sapiente in a good mood. He chatters on, as full of life as a bodiless being can be.

Angelo is quiet while he struggles to process this new information.

Sapiente apparently possesses expert knowledge of a skill that is completely foreign to Angelo.

 _He cannot be real_ , Angelo thinks desperately. _Because if he’s real… what about Martino?_

Suddenly the gnocchi feels thick and greasy in his throat. He swallows hard and pushes the plate away with a grimace. Sapiente objects, but Angelo tunes him out.

 

* * *

January 3, 1952

Another nightmare. Sapiente moves from his meditation by the window to rest a pale hand over Angelo's forehead as he thrashes in his sleep, wishing again that it wouldn't just pass right through him.

In a moment, Angelo will wake and stare at him, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. Later, he will take a small watch with him when he goes to the clockmaker's workshop. Broken timepieces will be pushed aside as Angelo takes the watch apart and reassembles it, again and again, in feverish, practiced motions like a rosary.

Sapiente fears it is his fate to bear this man's suffering. But there must be something he can do to help him.

 

* * *

March 27, 1952

_I cannot wait until you finally quit this disgusting habit completely._

Sapiente frowns as Angelo draws a cigarette, lights it, and takes a deep, shaky drag.

"I used to smoke at least twelve of these a day before I had the bad luck of getting stuck with you. Let me enjoy this one in peace without you making me sick again," Angelo retorts, raising the cigarette to his lips with shaking hands.

_How could you smoke that much? You know you're just poisoning your body. The way you cough when you sleep sounds horrible. Also, it dulls your senses, which you share now, in case you forgot._

"Well, I really don't think a man who killed himself is in a position to be giving anyone advice about their health," Angelo grits out. His breath catches in his throat, trapping the dark smoke. Sapiente is quiet as he coughs harshly.

"I probably shouldn't have said that," Angelo says after he recovers. "I don't even know if that's true. It's… just been my guess."

Angelo looks away and takes a quick, nervous puff. Was he worried that Sapiente might leave? Or that he might never leave? Sapiente begins to laugh tightly.

_I'm glad to be haunting someone clever. Even if we have nothing in common._

Angelo looks relieved. They sit in silence, watching the thin wisp of smoke from his cigarette trail towards the sky.

 

* * *

June 3, 1952

Angelo feels a slim hand caress his neck before looping around his waist.  He smirks at his shorter friend and ruffles his hair. Martino bats his hand away and keeps talking, although Angelo can't quite make out the words.

They stop at their usual corner by the flower shop, where Angelo sees his apartment to the right. Martino withdraws his arm and gives him a friendly salute as he saunters towards his dorm further down the road. As Angelo watches, Martino begins to fade away.

He wakes up trembling and covered in sweat.

Sapiente is sitting near him. Angelo throws the covers off and turns to face the wall. He forces himself to take slow, measured breaths through the deafening pounding of his heart.

_Whoever it is you dream about, you must have cared for them very deeply._

Angelo touches the bare wall and exhales slowly through his mouth before answering.

"He was more to me than a brother, or family."

_A friend?_

The dream had seemed so real. He could still feel Martino's fingers lazily scratching at the curls on his nape before skimming lightly down his back.

"Not quite... but no one would understand."

_The world has not changed much then._

Sapiente's voice is almost inaudible, but it still makes Angelo's chest tighten. It has been nearly six months since he first appeared. How many times has he watched him wake up like this? Angelo starts to shiver as his skin cools, but he angrily kicks the blanket off his legs.

"Well, what about you? Why did you kill yourself anyway? Please don't tell me it was coffee-related." He laughs bitterly.

_Heartbreak. I did not wish to endure the pain any longer._

Seems like your plan didn't work, Angelo almost says, but doesn't.

Angelo’s breathing echoes quietly in the small room.

"It still hurts then, after all this time?"

_I have carried it for hundreds of years, I suppose... and yet for me, it was only yesterday._

"A lover then?"

_Not quite a friend._

Angelo exhales sharply. For a moment, he wonders if he'll start laughing or crying, but it passes just as quickly.

"Seems like you found a solution. Would you recommend it?"

_Of course not. That would be awful. We might have to spend eternity together in that case._

Angelo laughs softly. "Or it'd be back to the moka pot for you."

He closes his eyes as a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeps over him.

"I've been thinking. It might be time for a new job."

_Oh?_

"I need to know how real you are," he slurs sleepily. "Or if I'm just completely cracked."

He can hear Sapiente sigh from behind him as he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

_Good night, Angelo._

 

* * *

August 3, 1952

Sapiente soars through the heavy glass door of Caffè Torino ahead of Angelo. Just as he has done every morning since they began working here, he whirls excitedly through the elegant coffee shop, gliding past the long polished wooden counter and sparkling chandeliers and up the grand curved staircase. It's just as beautiful to him as Caffè Florian in Venice, and there is the addition of the revolutionary _macchina_ that has changed everything Sapiente knows about coffee.

Sapiente floats back down to where the metal espresso machine, the centerpiece of his strange new existence, sits gleaming on the counter. Angelo is briskly wiping it down and readying it to make a morning cup before opening. He has tried to explain to Sapiente how the small parts inside move together to create an espresso with such intense aroma and flavor, but Sapiente is still convinced it is magic. This machine was created by a man named Gaggia in Milan less than a decade ago, but the results are worthy of praising the angels who had inspired its creation and had sent Sapiente here to see it for himself.

Angelo catches his gaze and imperceptibly nods at him. Sapiente happily floats over as he places a cappuccino cup on the machine's tray. A fresh puck of espresso is already inside the machine. Angelo pulls the lever and they both watch as the intoxicating dark liquid flows into the small cup.

Sapiente bursts into a wide grin and Angelo allows himself a small smile as well as he raises the cup to his lips. After a moment, they both look at each other and wince.

_Over-extracted..._

"Pulled too fast," Angelo mutters and pours out the rest of the shot.

Sapiente watches Angelo clear out the filter, grind a fresh puck of espresso, and pull again. A thin creamy layer of foam forms on top of the small cup. Sapiente was originally dubious of this "scum," but later realized that it was actually a new, integral sign of quality in espresso. Angelo takes another sip and sets it aside while he froths a pitcher of milk for the cappuccino.

It has only been a little over a month since Angelo began working here, but he is quickly learning the art of coffee-making. Sapiente's guidance has certainly helped, but Angelo is clearly a remarkable student who absorbs and perfects any technical knowledge shared with him.

Only the artistry is missing and Sapiente struggles to think of how to teach something that, to him, is as simple and essential as air.

Caffè Torino is one of the busiest coffee shops in the majestic Piazza San Carlo and the days fly by in an endless stream of customers and espresso. Angelo stands at the counter as still and remote as the eye of a storm while the other baristas bustle around him. He pulls one shot after another, each shockingly identical in quality, as if his hands were an extension of the pistons inside the machine. He has even acquired some regulars who appreciate a reliably good espresso, even though he never smiles and hardly ever speaks.

Of course, Angelo is only there to try to unravel the mystery of Sapiente's existence, but Sapiente tells himself that that shouldn't matter. He is glad to be a part of Italy's coffee legacy again, whatever the circumstances.

 

* * *

November 28, 1952

 _How can you act like a machine all day?_ Sapiente sputters as he goes out the door ahead of Angelo and plants himself in front of him.

"I thought you agreed that you wouldn't talk to me during my only smoke break," Angelo snaps. He fumbles as he pulls out a cigarette and drops it. " _Merda_!"

_Sai che cosa… you are worse than a machine! At least a machine can't help being anything but a machine! And when else am I supposed to talk to you, since you just ignore me when we're inside?_

" _You know what?_ " Angelo mocks. " _Sai_ this, _sai_ that. That's all I hear from you all day long and you wonder why I tune you out. Isn't this what you wanted? You came back from the dead because of coffee and now you're bored of it?"

 _Sai che_ \-- Sapiente catches himself and puffs his cheeks out in irritation.

Angelo's lips twitch despite himself as Sapiente attempts to stamp his foot.

" _You know what_ … you're several hundred years old. You should really start acting like it," Angelo says as he flicks the stub of his cigarette to the ground and steps on it before heading back inside.

For months now, Sapiente has watched with mounting frustration while Angelo pulls espresso shots with the same lack of enthusiasm he would show pulling weeds from the ground. His espresso shots never vary. The crema is always exactly the same color and each cappuccino is identical to the next whether they are being served to a young woman with a sweet tooth or the old shopkeeper who always adds a bit of rum from his flask.

Worst of all are the endless orders of bicerin. Torino is famous for its chocolate, its coffee, and this sickly sweet combination of both. Sapiente has never enjoyed sweet drinks in any life and certainly not the constant smell of burnt sugar.

Angelo places a row of small, clear glasses on the counter and neatly assembles the layers of espresso, chocolate, and cream en masse. Judging from his pinched expression, Sapiente doesn't think he cares for them either.

Finally, the shop empties as night falls. It's Angelo's turn to close up and he finishes placing the last of the washed cups on the drying rack with more force than necessary.

_Wait. I want you to make a drink before we leave._

 

* * *

_He can’t be serious_ , Angelo thinks, groaning in disbelief and fatigue. "Really? Now?"

_Yes, now._

Sapiente is gazing at him steadily, which Angelo always finds more unnerving than his tantrums. Still, he sighs and gestures at the bare counter.

"Everything's turned off and closed. You should have said something earlier."

 _Not everything._ Sapiente points at the coffee plunger tucked inside an open cabinet.

"We hardly ever use that," Angelo muses. But he fetches the glass pot with its fitted plunger and lid. It was invented not too long ago, in Milan in 1929, but it isn't widely-used at all. Nonetheless, Angelo likes it for its simple, elegant design.

"Fine. One cup. Since you've been in such a sour mood."

_Use the manual grinder to make two coarse tablespoons of the French roast._

"Yes, sir," Angelo mutters as he scoops the thick, crumb-like grounds into the glass pot and puts a kettle on the stove. When it boils, he lets the water cool for exactly 15 seconds before pouring it into the pot and fitting the plunger loosely on top.

They haven't made coffee together like this in a while, not since Angelo learned how to make the shop's menu flawlessly and Sapiente started complaining that Angelo wasn't _excited_ enough when he prepared coffee. Angelo respects Sapiente's knowledge, but he doesn't have patience for anyone, dead or alive, who tries to lecture him about things like feelings or intuition. It had created a distance between them… as much as there could be in their case.

After five long minutes, Angelo slowly presses the plunger down, letting the metal filter push the grounds to the bottom.

The coffee is a rich, glossy black. As he lifts the cup to his face, the intoxicating, smoky aroma surges into his lungs as satisfyingly as a freshly lit cigarette. He takes a sip. The flavor is so intense that it hits him like a bracing January wind, even as it scorches his tongue.

He _loves_ it.

Angelo stares at Sapiente with something like wonder. He isn't sure exactly what it is, because he’s never felt this way before.

_Good, isn't it?_

"It's… not another goddamn bicerin, that's for sure."

Sapiente lets out a peal of laughter. Angelo grins too.

"This is what's been missing," Angelo says. "But of course you knew that. _Sai_ this, _sai_ that."

Sapiente only beams at him in response.

Angelo downs the rest of the coffee before it cools and quickly washes the plunger and cup.

"All right. Let's go home, Sai," he says as he flicks the lights off and opens the door.

Sapiente glows faintly inside the darkened coffee shop as he looks at him, startled.

"Yeah, you. Sai, Mister Know-it-All," Angelo smirks and cocks his head towards the street outside. Sai smiles at his new nickname, and happily soars through the door like a shooting star.

_Yes... let's go home!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: This story includes the death of a major (original) character (in chapter two) and brief discussions of suicide and homophobia.
> 
> Wow, stated like that, this story sounds so dark! I swear, it's only a teen-rating and none of these topics are lingered over, but I'd rather be overly cautious in my warnings than to accidentally cause someone distress, especially since the main Hikajoe story-line is so lighthearted.
> 
> I've endeavored to write a story that is more bittersweet than full-on sad, but Hikaru no Go does start with a goban stained with Shuusaku's blood and I found it impossible to expand upon Sai's back-story without touching on some serious themes.
> 
> My supreme thanks to Caminante for her expert editing, footnote and research support, mutual positive reinforcement spirals, and being the best beta and friend ever. Without her Romance language skills complimenting my Japanese skills, this story wouldn't have an elaborate Italian-to-Japanese name pun. And really, isn't making bilingual puns the main reason why anyone studies a foreign language?
> 
>  **Footnotes** :
> 
> * In case it wasn't clear in the body of the story, _Sai che cosa_ means "you know what?" in Italian and _sai_ , from the verb _sapere_ , means "you know."
>   
> 
> * Angelo's name is an homage to [Angelo Moriondo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angelo_Moriondo), the inventor of the espresso machine.
>   
> 
> * [Photos and descriptions](http://slowitaly.yourguidetoitaly.com/2012/02/best-historic-cafes-of-turin/) of historic coffee shops in Torino/Turin, including Caffè Torino.
>   
> 
> * Instructions on how to brew the smoky French roast that Sai prepares for Angelo can be found [here](http://www.ehow.com/how_8350054_brew-intensely-smoky-coffee.html).


	2. Sai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had been given a second chance, as Sai. But for what purpose?"
> 
> A Sai-focused prequel to Hikaru no Joe

_Here the doge dropped the golden ring into the clear still waters of the Adriatic, plighting the troth of Venice in these words: "We wed thee, O Sea, in token of our true and eternal dominion over thee."_

_\- M. B. Synge, “[The Discovery of New Worlds](http://www.mainlesson.com/display.php?author=synge&book=discovery&story=queen)”_

Venice, Italy 

December 1957 

The midday sun blazes down on the crowded Piazzetta San Marco, where a tall, quiet man sits at a small table amid a flurry of people and pigeons. 

He is alone, but he sips a glass of wine with a private smile. The gilded domes of the grand Basilica San Marco loom over him to the left and the glittering blue waters of the Adriatic sprawl enticingly to his right, yet his gaze remains gently fixed on the empty seat across from him. 

Visible only to him, a beautiful young man in a long white coat and violet waistcoat smiles back. Against the backdrop of ancient marble columns and churches, he almost doesn’t seem out of place, but the sun burns through him and he casts no shadow. 

_Almost done? I can’t wait to walk across the Rialto!_

“Just resting my legs. It’s hard to keep up with you. You have too much energy for a ghost.” 

_Well, you’re not as young as you used to be either,_ Sai replies cheekily. 

Angelo grins and takes a final sip before getting up. After five years at Caffè Torino, they had finally made time to travel to Sai’s hometown of Venice for a vacation. Angelo usually detests traveling, but being with Sai has changed that, as it has so many other things. Nothing could compare to having an 18 th century Venetian ghost as his private tour guide. 

As they stroll through the busy market street, they stop to take in the view of the Rialto Bridge as the sun begins to set. Warm amber light suffuses its delicately arched windows and Sai sighs contently in a rare moment of silence. 

“How about we take a ride on a gondola?” Angelo asks. 

Sai lights up. _Yes! I love gondolas, but I didn’t think you would want to go by yourself._

“We can hop on with a group. Anyway, I’m not going by myself. I’m going with you.” 

They climb aboard a slim boat filled with two other couples. They look at Angelo strangely, but he doesn’t seem to notice their stares. Sai perches on the end of the boat facing Angelo as the gondola slowly makes its way under the bridge. 

The lamps hanging outside the shops along the Grand Canal begin to twinkle and glisten on the water as night falls. They sail past the Ca’Rezzonico Palazzo and the Doge’s Palace. Sai looks around in silent rapture with his hands clasped to his heart. As they pass under the Bridge of Sighs, a wistful smile illuminates his face. Angelo has made a quiet study of Sai’s changing expressions over the past six years and yet they always surprise him. 

Afterward, they walk back to the Piazza San Marco and pause at the entrance to Caffè Florian. It is bustling with patrons, but Angelo can still glimpse the chandeliers and plush red velvet seats inside. 

“What do you think? Are you ready to go in yet?” 

Sai hesitates as he glances at the stained glass windows. He shakes his head. 

_I’m sorry. I’m worried that if it’s too different from what I remember, I will disappear._

“Well, that’s fine then.” 

_You don’t think I am being ridiculous?_

“I don’t know how this works either. Better not to risk it though,” Angelo replies. “Let’s head back to the hotel.” 

Sai trails behind him, glancing longingly back at the coffee shop. Angelo cuts a path through the crowds of couples meandering through the piazza holding hands. Even in the most beautiful city in the world, Angelo walks quickly with his hands in his pockets and his eyes focused straight ahead. He suddenly stops to look behind him. 

“Sai?” 

_I’m here_ , Sai calls out and hurries to his side. 

“Good. There are too many people here and I don’t want to lose you,” Angelo mutters. Inexplicably, Sai laughs. 

* * *

Angelo lays sprawled on the bed with the sheets kicked to the ground, snoring loudly. The long day of sightseeing must have completely exhausted him. Sai is glad for his sound sleep. 

Rest would be nice, if it were possible for Sai. The window overlooks a moonlit sea of rooftops and a clear night sky. They are staying in Dorsoduro, away from the crowded San Marco and Rialto districts. Sai slips down the stairs, through the private garden, and out onto the quiet street. 

Moments later, he is crossing the Accademia Bridge towards San Marco. When he reaches the Piazza, he hesitates once more in front of the entrance to Caffè Florian before continuing on to the smaller Piazzetta. 

Two columns with the patron saints of Venice stand guard at the edge of the sea. Sai begins to move closer to them, to the water, but he is filled with dread. 

The beauty of Venice springs from her decay, just as roses wither and distill into a pungent perfume. In the still night, the two pillars cast long, malevolent shadows across the empty concrete square. 

At the sight of them, he is no longer the Sai of this world. He is Sapiente, cowering before them as so many others like him had done before. 

Sapiente thinks back to what had been recent history in his time—that between the 13 th and 16th century, this piazza was the site of countless public executions in a time when Venice was synonymous with ruthlessness rather than romance. 

By the 18th century, Sapiente had not been in danger of being burned or decapitated in front of the winged lion of San Marco for his _perversion_ , but he was still thrown into the streets for mistakenly believing that the son of Caffè Florian’s owner returned his feelings. With his reputation and livelihood ruined and his heart broken, he had come here to share the fate of those before him. 

He had been given a second chance, as Sai. But for what purpose? 

As glad as he is to show Angelo his Venice, Sai cannot help feeling ill at ease with how much it has changed. He thought he was used to this new world by now, excited by it even, but he did not believe Venice could really change so much from his memories. 

It’s clear to him now. He no longer belongs here. 

Sai backs away from the water and restlessly wanders towards the main square. He thinks of Angelo gently telling him that it was time to leave his job at Caffè Torino before showing him their train ticket to Venice. Angelo, who mastered coffee-making for Sai’s sake before moving on. Angelo, who might always have to sit alone at tables. 

Sai stands in front of Caffè Florian again. He hesitates for a moment before passing through the glass door. 

Inside, there is a small foyer leading to rooms with richly frescoed walls, rows of marble-topped tables, and red velvet seating. Sai moves slowly through the four darkened rooms, each one gorgeously decorated with gold inlaid and oil paintings. One of the rooms contains large portraits of several familiar faces. Here, Carlo Goldoni had let his espresso grow cold as he edited _Gl'innamorati_ and Casanova had given him a wink whenever he slipped into a booth with a new conquest. Another room is curiously adorned with East Asian motifs and yet another is covered in tiny, miraculous murals. 

It looks nothing like his memories, but Sai is, without a doubt, back at Florian’s. He can almost hear the faint conversations of noblemen, merchants, artists, and lovers echoing in its walls and the clatter of cups being set on marble tabletops. The oldest and most elegant coffee shop in Italy was still here, changed and yet unchangeable. Just like him. 

A massive and gleaming espresso machine sits proudly at the center of the counter with rows of neatly stacked and pristine small coffee cups on top of it. If only he could brew coffee at Florian’s again with this machine! Sai suddenly imagines Angelo in a blue waistcoat offering him a steaming demitasse and laughs. 

So much had happened here. So much and yet, sitting here in the darkened interior, Sai's thoughts inevitably return to the image of two men standing close to each other, silhouetted by the light of dawn. He was so young then, and so impulsive. 

Lost in his memories, Sai sits quietly at a small table as the first rays of sunlight begin to stream across the quiet plaza and through the tall glass windows. 

Suddenly, he hears a frantic tapping sound and looks up. 

Angelo is waving his arms and mouthing something at him from the window. Sai hurriedly rushes outside. 

To Sai’s shock, he sees that Angelo is still wearing his pajamas and his thick brown hair is matted on one side. 

“Oh, thank God,” Angelo gasps as he struggles to catch his breath. He furiously rakes a hand through his hair as the wild gleam of panic slowly fades from his eyes. 

“Why would you do that! Where the hell were you?” Angelo shouts, scattering several nearby pigeons. 

_I… I was here. I didn’t realize I would be gone for so long. Did you have another dream?_

“No, I didn’t have a goddamn dream!” Angelo snaps. He takes a deep breath. “I woke up, and you weren’t there. I remembered what you said about coming here, and you’ve been acting strangely, and I just thought…” 

Belatedly, Sai remembers their earlier conversation about his fear that he might disappear. 

_I'm so sorry, Angelo. I hadn't considered how it would seem if you woke up and I was missing._

“ _Uffa_! You can be a real jerk, you know that?” Angelo storms. “How about a warning next time? I didn’t even know you could travel that far on your own.” 

For a moment, Sai forgets and reaches out towards him. He lets his arm drop. 

_I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. I went inside, but I didn’t disappear after all!_

Angelo winces. “Just… stop talking. Let’s go.” 

He shivers and begins to stalk towards the bridge. Sai circles him anxiously and apologizes until they reach the hotel. 

Angelo comes down with a cold and spends the next several days inside the hotel. He can’t tell which is worse: the pounding in his head or Sai’s wailing insistence on blaming himself. On the last day of their trip, they make their way to Caffè Florian for a cappuccino. 

He takes a sip. 

“Not bad.” 

_“Not bad”! How can you say that? This is the oldest coffee shop in Italy! You will not find better coffee anywhere else in the world!_

Angelo shrugs. “I’m pretty sure you can make a better one. And by you… I also mean me.” 

_… I am not going to respond to that._

* * *

Milan, Italy 

April 1958 

Two large espresso machines lay splayed open on Angelo’s table at the Faema workshop, surrounded by bits of metal, various small wrenches, and a lone lever. Sai is both horrified and fascinated. 

_What does that blue tube do?_

“Ah. When the lever is pulled, the pistons create pressure while heated water runs through this pump,” Angelo says as he reaches inside the machine’s hollowed interior and pulls out a thick tube to show to Sai. 

They had moved to Milan just a few months ago after Angelo was hired as an engineer at Faema, a manufacturing company that specializes in espresso machines. Angelo quickly immersed himself in his new work and soon began bringing home bits of machinery and tinkering with them late into the night. Most of Angelo’s few belongings still lay in boxes strewn haphazardly throughout the small apartment. 

_Hmm…_ _I have to say, I prefer the level of control one has with the lever group machine. I can’t quite trust the other one that claims to auto-make espresso._

“Auto _mate_. Right. Then again, I hear Cimbali is starting to make hydraulic group machines with a heat exchanger, which would mean consistent ease of use _and_ better thermal balance…” 

Sai sniffs contemptuously. _Ease of use is not a virtue. If more skills are required from the barista for better quality, so be it._

“God Shots with almost every pull. Can you imagine that?” Angelo excitedly pushes his hair away from his face, leaving a streak of black grease on his forehead. 

_I wouldn’t use that term so carelessly!_

A few of Angelo’s new coworkers look at him curiously, but by now most of them were getting used to his habit of talking to himself. His supervisors paid it little attention and placed him in a quiet area. All geniuses were a bit eccentric after all. 

“The ideal situation though, would be a machine that perfectly controls as many variables as possible placed into the hands of a master barista…” Angelo trails off as he begins to excavate the gutted machines with delight. 

Sai perches at the edge of the table and asks as many questions as Angelo has the patience to answer. Sometimes he just listens to the stream of words that Angelo mutters to himself like a litany sung in a foreign language: _grouphead_ _, thermosyphoning, pre-infusion chamber._

He does miss working with Angelo at a coffee shop. But, although this new world and its semantics seem strange, Sai knows that he and Angelo are at the center of the next revolution in coffee. And that is exactly where he wants to be. 

Angelo is still musing aloud as they head back home. Sai observes the passing fashions on the street. Several women are wearing cropped jackets with embroidered lapels that look similar to the cut of his justacorps. He also sees a few men with long, loose ponytails. Imagine, him being stylish in Milan! 

“Sai? Sai!” 

_Sorry! Yes?_

“I just wanted to say… thank you,” Angelo says, not quite meeting his gaze. “I promise you, we’ll make a new God Shot together through my work here. The best one anyone has ever had.” 

Sai smiles. _I’ll hold you to that._

* * *

Milan, Italy 

August 1960 

“I know that look. You have a secret. Tell me or I’ll make you tell me,” Martino says with a mischievous smile. 

Angelo takes a sip of his cappuccino and kicks him lightly under the table. 

“If I’m such an open book, you tell me.” 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Martino sighs and traces a finger around the edge of his empty coffee cup. “Well, he seems nice. You found someone else who can put up with you.” 

“I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” Angelo shrugs. 

“Consider yourself lucky. You’re not exactly Prince Charming.” 

“You liked me well enough. Said so often enough when you were still alive,” Angelo smirks. 

“I really did. It would have been nice to hear you say it back though. Before it was too late,” Martino crumples his napkin and tosses it lightly at Angelo. 

Angelo loses his grip on the cappuccino cup in his hand. It wobbles unsteadily and crashes on to the table before he can take a drink. 

When Angelo opens his eyes, he sees Sai’s concerned face hovering over him. He instinctively reaches out, but his hand grasps only at air. 

* * *

Torino, Italy 

December 1965 

Sai beams happily at Angelo’s E61 espresso machine displayed proudly on the counter at Caffè Torino. 

“We can’t tell you how much we enjoy this machine,” the manager says to Angelo fondly and with a bit of awe. “It’s completely changed the way we make coffee. We’re all so proud of you.” 

“That was the idea,” Angelo replies. After Sai glares at him, he adds, “It’s very kind of you to say so.” 

“And it’s all thanks to this Sai, is it?” the manager chuckles. 

_Ah! Yes?_

“Funny, I don’t recall you mentioning him before. Then again, you did keep to yourself. Please, let me make you a coffee.” 

“Actually, if you don’t mind, may I make one myself?” 

“Of course!” 

Angelo smiles and pulls out the portafilter. 

When Angelo introduced his design for an improved pump-driven espresso machine in 1961, it completely transformed the world of espresso-making to the extent that, within just a few years, the previous piston-lever machines became obsolete and Faema became a leader in espresso machine production. 

The day it debuted, Angelo made Sai the God Shot he had promised him. 

The company had even held a special dinner in his honor and invited the media. In his speech, Angelo credited the world’s most skilled master barista for teaching him everything he knows about coffee. Within days, Espresso Weekly profiled the brilliant young inventor and the coffee world was abuzz with speculation about the whereabouts and identity of the mysterious Sai. 

Even now, Sai is delighted whenever he hears someone say his name. 

Angelo’s hand trembles slightly as he levels the ground espresso in the portafilter and some of the dark powder scatters onto the ground. He also struggles to tamp the grounds firmly before setting the portafilter into the machine. The resulting brew is surprisingly weak. Both Angelo and Sai say nothing. 

* * *

Milan, Italy 

February 1966 

The wrench drops to the ground with a clatter. Angelo bends down to pick it up and finds himself struggling for breath. It slips from his fingers again. 

Someone hands him the wrench and claps him on the back. The tall stocky man with glasses who works nearby. Er… nesto, maybe? 

“You okay there, Angelo? You’re not looking so good.” 

“I’m fine,” Angelo mutters and nods his thanks. 

He avoids looking at Sai and wills him not to say anything. Thankfully, Sai stays quiet. Angelo sits on his bench, listening to the thuds and clangs of the tools around him, and stares at his trembling hand. 

He feels nauseous as a blank, nameless emotion overwhelms and paralyzes him. Why can’t he curl his fist? The more Angelo tries, the more a familiar rage seeps in and he welcomes it. He bangs his hand on the table, but it lands with a soft thump. 

He can fix this. He just needs more information. But for once, Angelo doesn’t want to find out. 

* * *

Milan, Italy 

May 1966 

“Where would you go, Sai, if you could go anywhere in the world?” 

Angelo’s question catches Sai by surprise. 

_Hmm…_ _I’d like to go where they grow the best coffee beans and taste them at the source. Brazil, Colombia, Puerto Rico, the Ivory Coast… oh, and certainly Ethiopia, where they discovered the first coffee trees!_

“Well, I don’t know why I’m surprised. I shouldn’t be. Anywhere else?” 

Sai recalls the room in Caffè Florian that had been filled with curious porcelain statues and paper fans. 

_Somewhere in the Orient would be lovely._

“I agree. How about it? I can quit my job and we’ll go traveling,” Angelo smiles even as his voice comes out strained. 

Sai gives him a tight smile. 

_Perhaps it is a good idea to stop working._

“There are so many places you haven’t seen after all. I used to hate traveling but it’s different with you,” Angelo muses. 

_But Angelo…_ _You’re not well._

The words, finally uttered, seem to echo loudly in the silence afterward. They had both been pretending for months not to notice the increasing tremors of his hand, the dropped mugs and tools, and the way Angelo often lapsed into silence around others rather than struggling to speak. 

Angelo winces as he opens his mouth to speak. Sai floats down to face him unwaveringly. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before Angelo closes his eyes and sighs. 

“All the more reason… to take a trip now.” 

Sai can only look at him in agonized silence. 

“Just a short trip. And then… I’ll see a doctor.” 

* * *

Milan, Italy 

November 1966 

_How are you feeling?_

Nothing. He feels nothing. 

“Three to five years, huh? I should start getting rid of this junk now then. Make things easier later on,” Angelo says tonelessly. He stands up slowly. One arm hangs limply at his side. He looks blankly down at the bits of machinery scattered on every surface, the stacks of trade magazines, and the piles of clothing in varying degrees of cleanliness. 

He sees the old moka pot and picks it up with his good arm. A faint smile passes over his face. 

“Hey… we never made it to Asia after all. I know an old classmate who lives in Japan. I could send this to him. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” 

_I don’t want to think about that._

Angelo sets the moka pot down gently. Then he picks up a stray book and hurls it against the wall. 

“’Rapid degeneration’, they said. I won’t be able to speak. I won’t be able to move. I won’t be anything anymore. I’ll just be a vegetable, waiting for the end alone.” 

_You’ll have me._

Angelo stares at him, dumbfounded. Sai looks as young and radiant as the day he first appeared. Angelo feels ancient next to him, even though he’s only 42 years old. He should have so much more time left. 

He shakes his head, laughing softly to himself. 

“Yes, I’ll have my ghost with me. Right until the end when I finally join him.” 

_And I won’t leave you._

“Thank God for that,” he whispers. 

* * *

December 1969 

The white ceiling again. Angelo struggles to keep his eyes open. 

“Are you there?” 

_Of course._ _I’m always here._

Angelo sees the faint figure of a young man smiling over him. 

“Good.” 

He closes his eyes. 

* * *

January 1970 

Hey, Mister Know-it-all. What happens after? 

_It feels like sleeping, unless your soul isn’t at peace. Do you have any regrets?_

I don’t think I’m obsessed enough with coffee to come back like you did. 

_Are you still scared?_

No. Because you you’re here with me. And we lived a good life together. 

_We really did. We even made managed to take that trip to the coffee fields of Colombia!_

And you took me to Venice and Milan, in your own way. 

_I’m sorry I’ve burdened you. Maybe you could have had a family and a normal life, if it weren’t for me._

What nonsense are you talking about? I never wanted anything else but you. Didn’t I tell you that? 

_No, you didn’t._

Mio caro idiota. 

_Goodbye, Angelo. I love you._

I love you too, Sai. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * Angelo's espresso machine innovations in this chapter were inspired by the career of Ernesto Valente: "But it was Ernesto Valente, who had split from Gaggia in 1950, who came up with the most radical innovation in 1961." from [the wikipedia entry on Faema](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faema), and "Such semi automatic machines remain the standard operating tool in Italy today." from [Gaggia.com](http://gaggia.com/)
>   * Check out [this article](http://slowitaly.yourguidetoitaly.com/2013/04/top-15-historic-cafes-of-italy/) for photos and descriptions of historic coffee shops in Italy. Caffè Florian is number one!
>   * I looked at innumerable pictures of the interior of Caffe Florian for my descriptions but this [interactive panorama of the ground floor](https://www.google.com/maps/@45.433614,12.338273,3a,90y,157h,90t/data=!3m5!1e1!3m3!1sAkem-VbHYydIfxNzYIPsWA!2e0!3e2!6m1!1e1) is the coolest.
> 



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